Class Conflict and Ideology in Faulkner's Sanctuary

University of New Orleans ScholarWorks@UNO

University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations Dissertations and Theses

1-20-2006

These People are Not Your People: Class Conflict and Ideology in Faulkner's Sanctuary

Elizabeth Shaye Hope University of New Orleans

Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td

Recommended Citation Hope, Elizabeth Shaye, "These People are Not Your People: Class Conflict and Ideology in aulknerF 's Sanctuary" (2006). University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations. 315. https://scholarworks.uno.edu/td/315

This Thesis is protected by copyright and/or related rights. It has been brought to you by ScholarWorks@UNO with permission from the rights-holder(s). You are free to use this Thesis in any way that is permitted by the copyright and related rights legislation that applies to your use. For other uses you need to obtain permission from the rights- holder(s) directly, unless additional rights are indicated by a Creative Commons license in the record and/or on the work itself.

This Thesis has been accepted for inclusion in University of New Orleans Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks@UNO. For more information, please contact [email protected].

“THESE PEOPLE ARE NOT YOUR PEOPLE:” CLASS CONFLICT AND IDEOLOGY IN FAULKNER’S SANCTUARY

A Thesis

Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the University of New Orleans in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of

Master of the Arts in The Department of English

Elizabeth Shaye Hope

B.A., University of Southern Mississippi, 2003

December 2005

Abstract

According to William Faulkner’s assessment, the mixing of the classes fails because very different ideologies have emerged and are in competition and conflict with one another. The discourses and therefore the ideologies of the characters in Sanctuary are seen to be in conflict with one another, with persons on opposing sides occupying positions that seem to be growing further and further apart, making communication more and more difficult. In examining the speech and interactions of these characters, the codes and knowledge of the different value systems may be analyzed. Sanctuary, then, is not a novel merely about good and evil; it is a novel about the breakdown of southern antebellum ideology and the new set of relations that began to emerge in the early twentieth century. Social class and ideology are central issues in

Sanctuary, and Faulkner’s novel demonstrates the ways in which class transgressions result in violence.

The extraordinary power of William Faulkner’s early novels is at least partially due to the sound and the fury of competing voices, those voices dominant and the various others that whisper and resound throughout his fiction. Sanctuary, written and revised during the late 1920s and published in 1931, serves as a meeting place for the divergent voices present in the South during Prohibition as Faulkner understood them. In this novel, he represents the languages and the ideologies encoded in those languages at the precise moment of the South during Prohibition.

The failed communication of the characters indicate that a meaningful discourse, one in which all parties can effectively communicate with one another, is impossible between people of different social classes, and that ideological differences exist even among persons of the same class. Part of Sanctuary’s importance lies in its representation of the voices of its time and these voices’ relationships to and conflicts with one another. Faulkner appropriates these languages and uses them to expose the intra-racial tensions and violence present among white

Mississippians of the 1920s, ultimately presenting a grim and divisive view of a disconnected society.

Sanctuary is a novel that depicts a society without ideals. According to Irving Howe’s classic critical study of William Faulkner’s fiction, the novel has been concerned historically with the differences in behavior between social classes that interact in organized society. The

South of the early twentieth century in particular, because of the legacy of Reconstruction, faced

“a social vacuum with a decay in traditional relationships and the absence of new workable ones” (8). For Faulkner, this “decay” lay primarily in the collapse of nineteenth-century white aristocratic paternalism, and Sanctuary in particular scrutinizes this ideological position. Though many southerners long embraced this social code, by the early twentieth century paternalism was declining. Moreover, those who had once been lower-class gained a measure of economic

mobility when Prohibition afforded them the opportunity to turn quick, large profits from the sale of alcohol. And yet, for persons like Faulkner, these bootleggers and others associated with this subculture did not embrace middle-class values. These persons resisted rather than acculturated to the dominant ideology of the old paternal order, preferring the idea of a “New

South” to the myth of the old plantocracy that largely denied poor whites power. Sanctuary forcefully suggests that for Faulkner a mixing of the classes fails to blur class distinctions.

Many theorists have taken up this discussion of language and ideology in the novel. One such theory is Mikhail Bakhtin’s theory of discourse in the novel, which demonstrates the ways in which ideology becomes linguistically encoded in the novel. Such is the case in Sanctuary.

Bakhtin defines the novel as “a diversity of social speech types, sometimes even diversity of languages and a diversity of individual voices, artistically organized” (262). The novel thus represents the modes of discourse present in the particular cultural moment of the society that produces the novel. Many factors shape discourse, Bakhtin argues, not least of which is social class. A central point in his theory of discourse is that “in any given historical moment of verbal- ideological life, each generation at each social level has its own language; moreover, every age group has as a matter of fact its own language, its own vocabulary, its own particular accentual system” (290). He defines language not “as a system of abstract grammatical categories, but rather language conceived as ideologically saturated, language as a world view” (271).

Furthermore, he argues, “The prose art presumes a deliberate feeling for the historical and social concreteness of living discourse, as well as its relativity, a feeling for its participation in historical becoming and in social struggle, it deals with discourse that is still warm from that struggle and hostility, as yet unresolved and still fraught with hostile intentions and accents”

(331). Implied is an understanding of the novel as a raw, unprocessed, and unfiltered genre. As a

result, the distinguishing feature of the novel is its heteroglossia, the divergent and competing

voices of the society that produces a particular novel, “a multiplicity of social voices and a wide

variety of their links and interrelationships” (263). Every layer of speech in the novel reflects the

accents of different social elements of the era and culture that produced the novel, and while an

author may manipulate language, he or she will use the languages available in his or her

particular socio-historical moment.

Thus, according to Bakhtin, language is an ideological construct, and whether spoken or

transmitted through nonverbal cues, language indicates the ideological position of the speaker.

Although he concedes that literary language is frequently the language of a dominant social

group, he argues that “there is nevertheless present, even here, a certain degree of social

differentiation, a social stratification” (290) Furthermore, the action, like the speech of the characters, “is always highlighted by ideology[,] is associated with an ideological motif and occupies a definite ideological position” (334). Thus the various languages and discourses, whether represented through interior monologues, narrated monologue, or dialogue between characters, as well as the actions of characters, are cues to the ideologies represented within a text. For Bakhtin, the novel is polyphonic, and, though a dominant group may seek to establish unitary language indicative of a world view that privileges that group, voices of dissent are present in the consciousness of the author and thus present in the novel.

Bakhtin’s ideas about the novel and its relationships within ideology are, of course, open for critique, and many persons see these ideas as reductive, arguing that Bakhtin diminishes the author to a passive recorder rather than an active manipulator of language. Nevertheless, his theory is useful in examining ideology at work in the novel. Viewing Sanctuary through

Bakhtin’s definition of the novel allows one to consider Faulkner’s own voice and ideological

position as one of many that make up the dialogic speech of the novel. Locating Faulkner’s

ideology is less important than examining relationships between the various classed voices he represents, for though his own political stance may color his representation of anothers’, by

appropriating the language of the “other,” by placing various languages in the mouths of

different characters, Faulkner can draw various discourses into conflict with one another.

In Sanctuary, entrenched but fading paternalism conflicts with the competing ideologies of

the “New South.” Characters do not share values or knowledge, and they inhabit social worlds

that, despite their physical proximity, are largely foreign to one another. These class differences

lead to divergent frameworks with which the characters interpret reality. When characters

invested in these differing systems come into contact with one another, the meetings do not

result in mutual understanding or the merging of beliefs. One reason such meetings fail is the

breakdown of “conversational inference”, that theorist Joel Gumperz defines as “the situated or

context bound process of interpretation by which participants is an exchange assess other’s

intentions” (153). In other words, without a shared system of assessment, communication cannot effectively take place.

Faulkner powerfully and famously encodes these classed frictions in the novel’s opening scene. The novel begins with Popeye, a Memphis gangster, watching Horace Benbow, an ineffectual intellectual and lawyer, drinking from a stream near Frenchman’s Bend. Horace is “a tall, thin man, hatless, in worn gray flannel trousers and carrying a tweed coat over his arm”

(Faulkner 3). Horace appears as an academic. The narrative voice describes Popeye though

Horaces’s eyes:

a man of under size, his hands in his coat pockets, a cigarette slanted from his

chin. His suit was black, with a tight, high-waisted coat. His trousers were rolled

once and caked with mud above mud-caked shoes. His face had a queer, bloodless

color, as though seen by electric light; against the sunny silence, in his

slanted straw hat and his slightly akimbo arms, he had that vicious depthless

quality of stamped tin. (Faulkner 4)

The differences between these two men are evident in the narrative discourse that indicates that

Horace considers Popeye “vicious,” “queer,” and intimidating. The non-human qualities attributed to Popeye illustrate Horace’s judgment of Popeye as somehow “other.” Popeye has qualities of “tin”; he is “bloodless”, with eyes like “rubber knobs” (4). Popeye emerges “against

the sunny silence,” in opposition to nature, outside Horace’s understanding. Popeye, though

often associated with blackness and evil, is racially white, and, though impotent, male. Thus,

neither race nor gender bases Horace’s perception of Popeye as “other”; class and ideology do.

Indeed, Popeye’s speech confirms that Horace’s judgment of him as otherness is correct

because the two men have trouble assessing one another’s intentions. Popeye reveals himself as a

player in the underworld when he says to Horace, “You’ve got a pistol in that pocket, I suppose”

(4). Popeye presumes a gun’s presence indicates that in his reality men are invariably violent and

carry weapons. And yet Horace does not have a gun but rather a book, “The kind that people

read. Some people do” (5). Here Horace immediately identifies Popeye as uninterested in

education, a mark of high society. “Some” people may read books, but Horace knows Popeye is

not one of them. The two men find themselves in an awkward situation, each unable to assess the

intentions of the other and unsure of how to speak or act.

The frustrated attempts at conversation and the antagonism evident even here in the

beginning of the novel exemplify class antagonisms and misunderstandings. Gumperz explains,

“Only when a move has elicited a response can we say communication has taken place” (1).

Popeye mockingly asks Horace, “Do you read books?” (Faulkner 5), already knowing the answer.

Horace does not respond; instead, “[t]hey squatted so, facing one another across the spring, for two hours” (5). In his opening scene, Faulkner silences these two men for an exaggerated amount of time to emphasize that they cannot meaningfully interact with one another. The next mocking attempt at conversation comes from Horace, who, upon hearing a bird, breaks the silence and tries to recall the name of the bird. He says to Popeye, “And of course you dont know the name of it […] I dont suppose you’d know a bird at all, without it was singing in a cage in a hotel lounge, or cost four dollars on a plate” (5). Here Horace again separates Popeye from nature, suggesting he would not “know” a bird unless it was in a cage or on a plate, removed from its natural setting and placed in a commercial one. More importantly, though, Horace decides that

Popeye’s knowledge is different from his own. Critic John Basset explains that “knowledge is not separable from the perceiving subject—his personality, past, and fantasies” (76), and thus, because their subjectivities are so different, Horace and Popeye cannot meaningfully respond to each other’s comments and actions.

Horace’s voice is the tired voice of a fading ideology. For him, to name something, to put it to words, is to understand it. Judith Lockyer agrees that “Horace depends on words to know the world” (11). He places great faith and value in words such as law, justice, civilization, and truth. Unlike the tight-lipped Popeye, his name connects him to a classical Roman poet, thus connecting Horace to a valorization of the written word. Horace’s voice, pervading the novel, represents one voice of a dominant group as it struggles with new social realities. To some extent,

Horace realizes his kind is dying out, and he muses, “I am too old for this. I was born too old for it, and I am so sick to death for quiet” (Faulkner 261). Indeed, Horace was born too old for it, for the patritic system he adheres to is declining as he speaks.

Faulkner uses the character of Horace to critique southern paternalism by parodying the

language of the system. Horace’s penchant for academic language and his belief in the authority of words is crucial to the development of his character, but Lockyrer argues,“The ancient codes of civilization mean nothing in a world with Popeye and lynch mobs and women who are not the sanctuaries of peace and perfection that Horace wants them to be” (21). Ruby quickly identifies

Horace as a “man given much to talk and not much else” (Faulkner 13). His elaborate language sounds absurd to Ruby, and, as Critic Albert Guerard points out, Horace’s “drunken monologue

in the second chapter reads as though memorized from something he had published in a college

literary magazine” (76). The group of men he is speaking to out on the porch (Lee, Popeye, and

Tommy) may find the ramblings of the drunken “professor” entertaining, but the trio can make

little sense out of the monologue: “And I was smelling the slain flowers, the delicate dead

flowers and tears…That’s why nature is a ‘she’ and progress is a ‘he’; nature made the grape

arbor, but Progress invented the mirror” (Faulkner 15). Clearly, none of these other men would

refer to flowers as “slain,” nor are they very concerned with the differences between “Progress”

and nature, viewing the world rather as a test of survival. Horace’s outpouring of feelings elicits

no response, because Lee, Popeye and Tommy have no interest in Horace’s abstract concepts.

Although his abstract language shields him from the reality of Little Belle’s sexuality and

bolsters his idealization of female sexual purity, the other men do not share this need and

therefore cannot understand his monologue.

Horace does in fact have trouble with women, especially when they violate the roles he

projects onto these women; he is entrenched in conservative paternalist ideology. This system

frequently allows two primary roles for women: the saintly white mistress of the plantation and

the contrasting sexualized “red” woman. Horace prefers to think of each woman he encounters,

regardless of class, as the former icon within a southern mythology that Kevin Railey

summarizes: “Clothed in her white uniform or dress, seemingly already in her sepulchre, she inspires men to leave her alone and perform great deeds for her benefit…She is glorified and

deified, always in absentia; her image looms significantly, her body is ignored completely” (80).

Though Horace immediately perceives Popeye as “other” and is repulsed by him, Horace

projects Ruby into the role of white lady, as revealed by the narrative voice that takes on

Horace’s perception. Described as “cold, still” (Faulkner 18), she embodies, at least for Horace,

the stillness associated with ladyhood. He asks her, “Do you like living like this...You are young

yet” (Faulkner 16). He is instinctively attempting to “rescue” her.

Ruby recognizes that Horace wishes her to play this part, and she pities him. She refers to

him as “The poor old fool” (16) and observes that his “women folk don’t make him eat right”

(16). For her part, Ruby enacts white ladyhood as best she knows how out of pity for Horace,

and she tells him, “You’ll have to excuse the way I look” (18). Responding to these efforts,

Horace behaves according to his paternalist script, offering his services to the lady: “Maybe I can

do something for you in Jefferson. Send you something you need” (18). Even her rebuff is polite:

“You might send me an orange stick” (18). She thus rejects Horace’s pity for a helpless woman

dependent upon the benevolence of men.

Horace’s paternalistic performances extend beyond this scenario, as he also attempts to

rescue Ruby and Lee, believing them “good people,” though poor. To Horace, Lee is innocent of

Tommy’s murder, and Horace wrongly says to Lee, “They’d know you never had the guts to kill

anybody” (273). Thus Horace views Ruby and Lee as helpless victims of society, despite

knowing to the contrary. Horace tells Narcissa and Miss Jenny, for instance, “They are not

married. I know that just like I know that that little black man had that flat little pistol in his coat

pocket. But she’s out there, doing a nigger’s work, that’s owned diamonds and automobiles too

in her day, and bought them with harder currency than cash” (109). To protect Ruby from the

antagonism Horace knows she will face in town, he refers to her as “Mrs. Goodwin” in Jefferson,

even when Narcissa adamantly asserts to Horace, “These people are not your people” (119). He

clings to the role of the Southern aristocratic benefactor, the only role he knows.

The glaring class differences between Horace and Lee and Ruby result in misunderstanding and lead to Horace’s failure as well. Their inability to assess each other’s

intentions hinders Lee’s defense, for Horace cannot understand Lee’s reluctance to admit

Popeye’s involvement in the case. As Cleanth Brooks argues, the Goodwins have no confidence

in paternalism and no faith in Horace:“Lee Goodwin’s ties with society have been cut so

completely that he despairs of any help from society and is suspicious of the intentions of his

lawyer, Horace Benbow. Ruby is so certain that men do not act out of disinterested motives that

she offers her body to Horace – to his shock and disgust – in order to pay for his services to her

man” (23). These separate social positions are evident when Horace rhetorically asks Ruby,

“What kind of men have you known?” (Faulkner 276). Later, Lee rephrases the same question to

Horace. Clearly, Ruby and Lee’s experience of men has been different from Horace’s experience

of men, indicating that social class dictates experience of reality.

Horace’s naiveté prevents him from sharing Lee’s cynicism, and Horace continues to

place his trust in abstract ideals. His inactive legal career has not included significant contact

with the criminal world, and his social class has prevented further interactions with persons such

as Lee and Ruby. Horace and the couple do not perform according to the same social script, and

so are unsure of how to interpret each other’s actions. Ruby and Lee cannot view Horace’s

actions as benevolent and instead misinterpret his attempts at assistance as suspect rather than

genuinely benevolent and desire to “do something just because he knew it was right, necessary to

the harmony of things” (275). Even Miss Jenny, an aristocrat, warns Horace, “You wont ever

catch up with injustice, Horace” (119), but Horace needs to “save” Lee and Ruby to validate and

protect himself. He explains that “there’s a corruption about even looking upon evil…I thought I

had come back here of my own accord, but now I see that“(129). He leaves this sentence

unfinished but implies that he has been chosen to eradicate evil. Thus, having sex with Ruby

would defeat Horace’s motive of becoming a protector and instead would make him corrupt as well. He wishes to prove to himself and others that he is a man with the purpose and strength to preserve the morality of the community and especially the chastity of women.

Ruby offers her body to Horace because this is the role she has learned. She does not know men like him, ready to “work harder for whatever reason you think you have, than for

anything anybody could offer or give [him]” (129), and she has learned not to expect help from

strangers. In fact, her brutal experiences with men have led her to view her body and its sexuality as currency. When Lee goes to prison for killing another soldier over a prostitute in the

Philippines, Ruby turns to “jazzing” (59) to pay a lawyer to bribe a congressman, an act that only provokes Lee ultimately to beat her. She expects to pay Horace in the same manner, admitting to him that she “got him [Lee] out of jail once that way…When they knew he was guilty” (276).

Thus, in Ruby’s experience, the sexual purity projected upon the white lady has offered few advantages. Her chastity would not have paid for the lawyers, the fur coats in Memphis, the nightgowns given “away to nigger maids after one night” (75). Ruby tactically deploys her body and sexuality; among the men Ruby has known, sex is one of her only bargaining tools.

Narcissa’s social status and chastity work for her much in the same way that sex functions for Ruby; both women use the power available to them. Ruby’s sexuality contrasts

with the relative desexualization of the upper-class Narcissa, demonstrating that, for Faulkner, social class dictates sexual attitudes and behavior. Narcissa lives in “the home of her husband’s people” (23), the grand house of the Sartoris plantation. She wears “her customary white dress”

(25) and looks upon Horace “with that serene and stupid impregnability of heroic statuary” (107).

She is both impenetrable and still, far removed from the struggle of Ruby. Narcissa is, however, also quite cruel, and Faulkner’s critique of her seems inescapable. A widow for ten years, she refuses to remarry, claiming “one child was enough for her” (165), and though she juggles hapless suitors, she disassociates from her sexuality. Narcissa is passionless and celibate. As

Miss Jenny points out, Narcissa doesnot “want anyone to know that any of her folks could know people that would do anything as natural as make love or rob or steal” (119). For Narcissa, even association with these behaviors threatens to taint her understood purity; hence, she recoils when

Horace brings Ruby into the Benbows’ familial home. Like Horace, she fears sex and corruption, for though her sexuality has been kept in the socially acceptable context of marriage, Narcissa refuses to re-enter this state and become sexual once more. Narcissa’s ability to influence the men of her class depends on her name and chastity, because gentlemen expect her to behave like the white lady. Performing the role of lady enables Narcissa to intimidate the district attorney,

Eustace Graham, who, “when he found himself facing Narcissa across the desk in his dingy office, his expression was like that when he put the forty two dollars in the pot” (263). He and the other men Narcissa knows, such as Horace and her husband, have far different expectations for the sexual behavior of women than the men Ruby knows.

Temple Drake is another negative portrayal of the aristocracy, lacking Narcissa’s reserve but sharing her purity. Temple clings to her social status for her own “sanctuary” and uses her father’s status as a protective mantle. Her social position as a judge’s daughter, she feels, allows

her to play the coquette while remaining sexually inviolable. This ploy has apparently worked for Temple with the town boys of Oxford, since although she repeatedly sneaks out to go riding with them, she remains a virgin. The boys do appear accept her teasing, though they resent it.

One of the boys mockingly repeats of Temple: “My father is a judge” (30). Critic Robert Moore explains, “For all her flirting and running around after hours with town boys, she has always been Judge Drake’s daughter; and when it serves her purpose, she invokes his title as another means of attempting to control others” (127). Temple is not, however, the white lady of southern mythology. She is constantly in motion rather than statuesquely still, and she breaks the rules of both her father and of the university. But, like Narcissa, Temple does not taint herself; she retains her sexual purity. Indeed, as Scott Yarbrough argues,“Prior to arriving at the bootlegger’s house,

Temple has placed her faith in the same things, doubtless, that Narcissa Benbow and the church ladies of the novel place their faith in” (54). Temple thus personifies paternalistic fears of the

“new woman” in the New South. She is a sheltered pretty college coed who, left unprotected, falls into moral deprivation.

Throughout the novel, Faulkner emphasizes that Prohibition forms a connection between the gentlemen of southern society and its outcasts, and yet this connection is one formed by addiction. The moral deprivation of the upper classes is perhaps most shockingly revealed by

Gowan Stevens. The beau of both Narcissa and Temple, he has been to college and is presumably of a good family, but he is also an alcoholic. He has no problem associating himself with the town boys of Oxford to obtain alcohol, and does not even consider the danger of bringing Temple to “run up to Goodwin’s and get a bottle” (37). Gowan brags, “I learned in a good school” (33) how to drink his whiskey. It is a man of her own class, an ostensible gentleman, who places Temple in danger rather than “badger-trimmed hicks” (38) with whom

she rides. Temple maintains her purity largely because she has stayed in the controlled social sphere in Oxford, where the town boys defer to her class privilege. Gowan’s alcoholism, however, places Temple in Frenchman’s Bend. Because alcohol was illegal, producing and selling it became a profitable business for criminals and social outcasts. Accepted yet legally prohibited, alcohol transcended class boundaries, and its demand remained high. The buying, selling, and drinking of alcohol during Prohibition brought persons from all social positions into contact with one another, and as is often the case with illicit substances, this contact often had negative consequences.

Prohibition allows Temple to come into contact with men unlike those men she has known, and she immediately recognizes the Frenchman Place as foreign, remotely perceiving the danger she is in. She does not, however, understand that her class privileges are suspended here.

Upon entering the house, Temple is in constant motion,“with a grimace of taut, toothed coquetry” (Faulkner 48), but now teases men who do not see her as sexually inviolable but rather as a “whore,” a term Popeye directly uses with Temple. Both he and Lee have known prostitutes and seem to see all women as objects for sexual use. Olga Vickery argues that Temple unwittingly invites her violation and “attempts to persuade herself that the two worlds are identical, or, if not, that hers has the power of control” (17). Unlike Gowan and the town boys, men at the Frenchman Place expect fulfillment of their desire and simply do not care about the position held by Temple’s father in the legal system.

Temple’s rape is a result of the clash of two classed ideological systems.

Once she realizes that Gowan is an ineffective protector, she turns to Ruby for help, trying to convince herself that “Things like that don’t happen… You’re just like other people. With a little baby” (Faulkner 56). Once Temple realizes that Ruby shows no sympathy, the girl falls

back on her social status for protection, repeating “My father is a judge” several times and thus

using the phrase as a substitute for prayer, her social position as god. In fact, when Ruby warns

Temple to leave before dark, Temple coos to the baby “if bad mans hurts Temple, us’ll tell the

governor’s soldiers, won’t us” (56). Critic Diane Roberts explains Temple’s attempts to control

the situation she is in, and the reasons those attempts fail:

Projecting Ruby as a member of the Junior League fails, so

Temple appeals to class, hoping her ladyhood, conferred by her

father’s status as a judge and a friend of the governor will save her.

But had Temple read the signs around her-the ruined plantation

garden, the wrecked plantation house- she would have realized

that the chivalric code is bankrupt at the old Frenchman Place.

(133)

But Temple does not realize that this code is useless here and ignores Ruby’s admonitions to

leave before dark. Ruby knows that Temple is only “playing at it” (Faulkner 60), a coquette, but

Ruby also recognizes the danger of Temple’s game: “Do you know what you’ve got into now. . .

Do you think you’re meeting kids now?” (58). Ruby, who understands the difference between

Temple’s world and that of the bootleggers, knows that her ladyhood will not protect her, especially where no women are perceived as ladies.

Paternalism, of course, is the ideology that defines ladyhood, and Ruby, Lee, and Popeye reject virtually all the principles of paternalism. As Robert Moore explains, “proper society,”

Temple’s customary society, “labels Goodwin, Ruby, and Popeye, bootlegger, prostitute, and thug, and dismisses them respectively. If they accept this system [paternalism], they accept with it their low status . . . these outcasts who inhabit the old Frenchman Place have long since chosen

not to be bound within the structure of this society” (127). Lee is a bootlegger and a convicted murderer; Ruby is a prostitute and a fixture in the Memphis underworld; and Popeye, by the novel’s close, is a murderer, a rapist, and a gangster. As Cleanth Brooks establishes, Ruby and

Lee “are not altogether typical of the poor white class. The pair are not only poor; they are consciously outlaws” (23). They live, both literally and figuratively on the outskirts of society, and it is no surprise that Temple, previously shielded from such ruthless society, cannot assess the danger it poses.

Faulkner is emphatic about the gulf between these two classed systems. Ruby and

Temple’s attempts at conversation, for example, fail to unite the two women, largely because words do not hold the same meaning for the two. Bakhtin again offers a useful lens for analyzing this divergence, as he posits that “The speaking person in the novel is always, to one degree or another, an ideologue, and his words are always ideologemes” (333). Each word spoken by a character is ideologically loaded. Therefore, since Temple’s and Ruby’s social positions vastly differ, words carry different meanings for the two women. When Temple offers that she is on

“probation,” for instance, Ruby immediately- and wrongly- assumes Temple refers to legal status for having committed a crime, though the woman is surprised that the girl would be in trouble with the law. Temple, in turn, does not even recognize the implication of Ruby’s questioning the word and rattles on about being caught sneaking out to go riding with the town boys. Temple similarly finds humor in her brother’s threat to “beat” her, but Ruby cannot see the joke and responds with the brutal story of her father shooting her lover and demanding that Ruby “[g]et down there and sup your dirt, you whore” (Faulkner 58). The result is that Ruby merely intimidates Temple, and they have virtually no meaningful conversation since they share so little of each other’s experiences.

Even after the rape, Temple’s behavior accords with class expectations. During the trip to

Memphis, Temple is obviously in a state of shock, screaming in the car and eating her sandwich with “her mouth open” (142). When Popeye stops at store, leaving her alone in the car, she does not run away from Popeye but hides behind a barrel, afraid not of Popeye now but of being recognized by a boy from school: “He was coming right toward me! A boy. At school” (140). As

Moore points out, Temple “perceives what has happened to her as a stain immediately evident to anyone from that innocent world” (Moore 130). In short, she cannot bear to be recognized by anyone from her world as a fallen woman. Even while in Miss Reba’s brothel, Temple falls back on the sanctuary of her former life, if in nothing else but her reveries. She glances at the clock and notes the time, reflecting it is the “hour for dressing for a dance, if you were popular not to have to be on time” (151). Her mind, rather than focus on her trauma, fills with memories and images of being at a college dance. Clearly Temple’s mind cannot process and accept recent events , and therefore she chooses to imagine the trappings and privileges of her class.

Temple doe attempt to appropriate the behavior and values of the Memphis underworld that she enters, but these attempts are almost all unsuccessful. They may arise because she feels that the rape eradicates her social status. In fact, after the rape, she does not mention her father or

his occupation. Robert Moore argues that “Temple seems to accept that the experience has

transformed her into a whore, unfit for the company of the so-called good people of Jefferson”

(131). Similarly, she seems to repress other key elements of her former life. After imagining

dressing for a dance, Temple thinks “This is not me. Then I’m at school. I have a date tonight

with . . . ” (Faulkner 152). But she cannot recall the boy’s name, because such names carry no

meaning in her new life. She cannot recall the words associated with her former life. The names

of college boys carry no meaning in her new life. Temple therefore becomes Popeye’s “girl,”

drinking and smoking, performing as well as she can the role of the social other.

Key to this performance is Temple’s assumption that an insatiable sex drive is part of this role. In contrast to her previous behavior, she engages both Popeye and Red in perverse sexual acts. She takes some pleasure in appropriating this behavior, however, especially in the power it

gives her. Temple teases the impotent Popeye, for example saying “Dont you wish you could do what he can do?” (Faulkner 232). She is aware that Popeye and Red value sexual gratification rather than purity, and she accordingly acts with openness and aggression, such as when she

“writhes her loins” (238) against Red, begging him to satisfy her. Temple also begins to drink heavily, further attempting to enact her idea of a bootlegger’s woman.

And yet Temple’s attempts at these performances are as inept as Ruby’s attempts to enact ladyhood. Indeed, Temple cannot truly become a member of the underworld, for, as Miss

Reba remarks to Horace, Temple “wasn’t born for this kind of life” (220). Her values and those of Miss Reba and Minnie are simply too different. Therefore, neither Reba nor Minnie, though they do not know about the corncob, can understand why Temple is so upset at the loss of her virginity when she is being paid so well for it. Miss Reba attempts to comfort the raped Temple by telling her “that blood’ll be worth a thousand dollars to you, honey” (145), and Minnie is confused when Temple destroys the expensive items Popeye buys for her, because the two older women value money but not chastity. This is, after all, a Memphis whorehouse, where sexual predation and brutality are facts of life, and both Reba’s and Minnie’s existence depends on this fact.

Temple, for her part, takes Popeye’s threats of violence as lightly as she has taken her brother’s, and yet the stakes are much higher. Through this behavior she exacerbates the tension

between Popeye and Red, ultimately causing Popeye to shoot Red. Although she appropriates the actions of the “fallen woman,” she does fully understand the meaning or consequences of these actions. For example, Temple tells Red, “[N]ow he’s got them [Popeye’s thugs] there to bump you off,” and Red asks, “Did you know that when you telephoned me?” (239). While Temple does not take Popeye’s threat seriously, Red’s question shows that, as a player in this world, he knows the threat of violence is real. The final result of Temple’s ignorance of this classed violence is that she unwittingly places Red in his coffin.

Characters of the same class do not necessarily share the same ideology. For example,

Horace class-neutral social justice, but this ideal is not shared by other persons of his class, especially Temple and Judge Drake. Unfortunately, the destruction in Temple’s wake does not end with Red’s death, for she and her father are responsible for Lee’s lynching as well. Temple lies about his guilt either to conceal the full extent of her sexual transgressions or, more likely, to escape the retribution of Popeye, who she now knows is capable of both rape and murder. After

Temple testifies that Lee has raped her, “the platinum bag slip[s] from her lap to the floor with a thin clash…With the toe of his small gleaming shoe the old man flipped the bag into the corner”

(289). Temple drops the bag, and neither she nor her father stoops to retrieve it; rather, her father kicks it to the corner, implying that he knows at least a portion of the truth surrounding his daughter’s absence. His action indicates that he knows how Temple has come to possess that bag, and so it is probable that he knows that Lee is innocent. Kevin Railey argues that although a member of the upper classes, Judge Drake upholds a “new form of paternalism [that] served more as a badge of social status and was based solely on the cash-nexus. It did not include commitment to social responsibility and leadership” (13). Judge Drake does not believe in the justice system he supposedly represents, and he would rather allow an innocent man to die than

allow his daughter’s recent episode to become public. He, like, Narcissa, Eustace Graham,

Clarence Snopes, and the townspeople represents the New South that Horace fears, a new South

unable to provide sanctuary for the innocent, a South that critic Robert Brinkmeyer describes as

having “a void that lies at its ideological center. There’s neither a shared ethic nor a recognized

leader who embodies a community ideal” (86). Judge Drake embodies this community ideal, the

ideal of Horace, only in title, for he does not believe uphold the abstract ideal of class-blind

justice.

Although of the same class as Horace, the alcoholic Gowan Stevens similarly does not replicate Horace’s attempts to be either a protector or a benefactor. Gowan is both immoral and

ineffective as a protector. In fact, Faulkner emphasizes the absurdity of Gowan’s status as a

gentleman, by having Gowan be far too intoxicated at the Frenchman’s Place to protect Temple.

He drunkenly stammers “gemman got proteck” (Faulkner 73) but passes out on the bed, having

been beaten up by Van. Thus Faulkner paints Gowan as an idiot, not a gentleman, for he cannot

even identify the objects he is supposed to protect. Ironically, it is Ruby, not Gowan, who

protects Temple from the men, though Ruby does so out of self-interest rather than genuine

concern for the girl. Still, Temple might have escaped violation if Gowan had returned for her

instead of abandoning her out of fear of having to face her, cowed by the thought of “Temple

returning among people who knew him, who might know him” (85). He likewise proves himself a coward, as he breaks ties with both Temple and Narcissa for fear his reputation as a gentleman

will be ruined. Thus Gowan upholds the code of a gentleman only in speech and appearance, and

even these ultimately escape him, leaving his gentlemanly behavior limited to knowledge of how

to mix a whiskey sour.

Narcissa displays this same contempt, indicating that Faulkner is as critical of her

character as Temple’s, Judge Drake’s, and Gowan’s. She tells Horace, “I live here, in this

town . . . I cannot have my brother mixed up with a woman people are talking about” (184), and

she sabotages Horace’s defense purposefully, wanting Lee hanged quickly. The narrative voice

judges Narcissa as stupid, inactive, and sheltered: “a big woman, with dark hair, a broad, stupid, serene face” (25), who is “living a life of serene vegetation like perpetual corn or wheat in a sheltered garden instead of a field” (107). Moreover, Narcissa is as responsible for the violence in Sanctuary as Popeye, Temple, and Gowan, since Narcissa passively but consistently abets crime and injustice, revealing the cruel nature of social hierarchy, and refuses to identify with

Ruby even as a fellow mother. Horace tries unsuccessfully to move Narcissa to sympathize with

Ruby, who has been “practically turned into the streets,” but Narcissa retorts, “That shouldn’t be a hardship. She ought to be used to that” (182). Narcissa does not care whether Lee’s case receives justice or not; as she tells Horace, “I dont see that it makes any difference who did it . . .

When people already believe you and she are slipping into my house at night” (185). Like

Gowan, Narcissa only cares for the appearance of the abstract concepts to which Horace clings.

His decision to “walk out just like a nigger” (108) on Belle embarrasses Narcissa, and she is even more horrified by his involvement with Lee and Ruby’s case. Thus Narcissa, with her lack of compassion, reveals a dark side of the southern lady.

Just as Narcissa and Horace reveal intraclass ideological conflicts in the South’s elites, characters from the lower classes similarly do not share the same ideology. The best example of this sort of intra-class conflict is Red’s darkly comic funeral. While some of those attending it, like the proprietor, attempt to maintain decorum, others show no regard for ceremony. No identifiable set of rules governs this world, resulting in chaos and violence. The rites become a

farce when the funeral turns into a drunken party. Beginning with spiked punch and jazz and ending with a brawl, Red’s funeral takes place in a gambling house, and soon one attendant begins yelling: “Get that damn stiff out of here and open the game” (248). The proprietor attempts to maintain some order, saying “[D]ont play blues, I tell you . . . There’s a dead man in that bier” (244), and the orchestra opens with “Nearer My God to Thee,” an appropriate funeral tune. But any decorum quickly evaporates when a woman yells, “Whoopee, so long Red. He’ll be hell before I could even reach Little Rock” (245). The liquor flows freely, drunken brawls follow, and finally Red’s coffin crashes to the floor, his corpse rolling onto the floor, a reminder that this is not a place of order. Therefore, while some members of this class attempt to enact middle-class reserve, others reject these values.

Despite the obvious differences in class and ideology between the characters in Sanctuary,

Faulkner subtly links his characters through language, suggesting language can indeed transcend social and ideological boundaries. Narcissa’s statement “These people are not your people” (119), for example, is echoed later by Ruby, who tells Horace that she “told her [Temple] before it got dark they were not her kind of people” (161). Similarly, Horaces asks Ruby “What kind of men have you known?” (276), a questions which Lee rephrases for Horace as “What sort of men have you lived with all your life?” (279). Even the languages of Temple and Ruby echo one another.

Ruby sees Popeye and Temple driving away from the Frenchman place and notes that “Popeye did not make any sign, though Temple looked [her] full in the face, without any sign of recognition whatever” (104). Later, the narrative voice uses the same language in describing the same moment from Temple’s perspective, with Ruby “flicking swiftly in and out of Temple’s vision without any motion, any sign” (137). The same words may function in more than one framework, and language can be a unifying force as well as a dividing one.

Furthermore, like the characters, the narrative voice in Sanctuary at times presents opposing ideological viewpoints. The shifting perspectives of the narrative discourse illustrate

Bakhtin’s theory at work in the novel, for the narrative voice at times appropriates the discourse of paternalism, and at other times is critical of paternalist ideology. For example, consider the narrator’s description of the Frenchman Place. Instead of the beautiful, white, well-kept, orderly plantation home that symbolizes the feudal southern ideal, the plantation house is “a gutted ruin,” and the grounds having “long since gone back to jungle” (8). The narrator uses harsh descriptions to color the reader’s perception of the home and its occupants. This passage demonstrates that the language of the narrative voice is ideologically determined as well. Railey explains the ideological undercurrents of this passage:

Southern paternalists held to a belief that materialistic and vulgar

hordes from the North were descending from the North upon

them, ruining their civilized way of life in the creation of a New South that

was not the South…[T]this fear and its realization are embodied in the

way Faulkner describes the Old Frenchman’s Place as being taken over by

the lower elements of society, who have allowed it to revert back to kind of a

jungle status. (71)

As Railey suggests, threats to southern paternalist ideology come not only from the distant North

but also from within the South itself. Anne Jones explains the narrator’s relationship to ideology

within a text: “The narrator’s own representation at times foregrounds his (or her) own simultaneous location within and awareness of ideological construction, a location both

‘extrinsic’ and ‘intrinsic’” (144). The narrative voice moves in and out of different perspectives

in order to form a picture of the whole it is attempting to represent.

At the close of the novel, however, the narrative voice strongly resists paternalist ideology. Significantly, the novel closes on Temple, quiet for the first time, in the Luxembourg

Gardens with her father. She has fallen, but she has been restored to her social position and is pictured as a disturbing vision of the white lady, sitting among the “dead tranquil queens in stained marble” (Faulkner 317). The narrative voice describes both Temple and her father as static, disaffected, and unemotional. Temple’s only movement, peering into her compact to see her face “sullen and discontented and sad” (317), is a mere reflex, and she performs this action automatically, focusing on her ladylike appearance. Railey suggests that this ending shows restored order, but because the novel closes in Europe rather than Mississippi, the novel suggests that restoring social order in Mississippi is not possible (84). The narrative discourse, however, contains suggestions that the return of this particular order is not wholly desirable. It is “a gray day, a gray summer, a gray year” (Faulkner 316). A “sad gloom” hangs over the gardens; the brasses are “dying,” and this is the “season of rain and death” (317). The narrative discourse in this scene thus resists the order being described and does not see Temple’s return to her father and the ideology of the restored order as a positive force. The negative description is similar to the negative description of the Old Frenchman Place, but what is being described is quite different. Here it is the location of the aristocracy, a refuge of paternalist ideology, that the narrator views so critically.

The narrative voice, in fact, is quite often critical of different locations, moving in and out of different ideological frameworks, demonstrating the polyphony described by Bakhtin. This voice, for instance criticizes both of Jefferson and Memphis, especially the latter’s red light district. Jefferson, on the one hand, is full of “disembodied voices . . . lugubrious, harsh, and sad”

(112), while Memphis features “forlorn and hardy tree[s] of some shabby species” and “smoke-

grimed frame houses,” and even its blooms are “cadaverous” (142). Thus the voice takes refuge

in neither setting, finding fault with both the “good” community of Jefferson and the filth of

Memphis’s underworld. Frenchman’s Bend, European palace gardens, Memphis, and Jefferson

are all poorly depicted, but as no one place is favored over another, Faulkner’s own idea of a

refuge is unclear. What is made evident, though, is that each of these locations evince signs of

decay, disorder, and alienation, implied mostly by the narrator’s choice of adjectives. These

locations are not capable of restoring social order or providing a setting for social harmony.

Indeed, several social, political, historical, economic, and epistemological forces merge

to create the particular historical moment of Sanctuary, a moment that, if one takes Faulkner’s

depiction as accurate, was filled with tension and often erupted into violence. Sanctuary presents

a dark and violent reality, and as Railey argues, “If a society is wrought with tension, conflict,

and violence, the dominant ideology has not established hegemony; in short, people question its

worth and validity, and its dominant status is in jeopardy” (4). Sanctuary depicts a society filled

with violence; hence, it can be said that Sanctuary depicts a society in which dominant ideologies are fading and competing with other ideologies. Albert Guerard agrees that

“Sanctuary is a picture, not merely a vision, of the contemporary depravity, specifically of north

Mississippi, more generally of Prohibition America” (64). The paternalist ideology upheld by

Horace is fading even in his own class, and Red’s funeral demonstrates that a single set of relations is not governing the behavior of the lower classes either.

But, despite these facts, effective communication is possible between persons of the same class, regardless of the difference in their values. The interaction between Popeye and Ruby at the Frenchman Place, though antagonistic, exemplifies how persons possessing similar knowledge and occupying similar social positions are able to communicate. Popeye tells Ruby,

“There’s a bird out front” (Faulkner 9). Obviously, Popeye’s use of the word “bird” is slang; he is not referring to, for example, the bird that Horace hears previously and identifies as the fishing-bird. Furthermore, Ruby’s speech, throughout most of the novel, is “normal” and comes closest to representing standard colloquial English (Brown 31), yet in her conversation with

Popeye, Ruby’s speech includes slang terms such as “crimps,” “feebs,” and “spungs” (9). Taken in context, these can be understood as derogatory terms, and Popeye recognizes he is being insulted. He retaliates smugly, saying to Ruby, “You’re getting fat here . . . I won’t tell them on

Manuel Street” (9). Manuel Street appears to be linked to Memphis’s underworld, with which both Popeye and Ruby are familiar. Telling the “them” of Manuel Street is a sort of mocking threat, one that would be lost on Ruby if Manuel Street held no significance for her. She bitterly calls Popeye a “bastard,” showing that the insult has indeed registered in her consciousness. Thus, although Ruby and Popeye both exist outside the dominant order and do not adhere to its values, both characters know the world and language of brothels and bootleggers. Moreover, Ruby knows which language will best convey meaning to Popeye, and she shifts accordingly, allowing effective, though hostile, communication to take place.

Despite their differences, Horace and Narcissa effectively communicate as well. When

Horace returns to Jefferson after leaving Belle, Narcissa, when she sees her brother, sighs, “Oh,

Horace” (107), and with these two words signals her knowledge and disapproval that Horace has left Belle. Narcissa never directly asks Horace why he has left his wife, and though at first she says very little to Horace, he senses her “tragic disapproval” of his actions. After Horace loses

Goodwin’s case, Narcissa takes Horace back to her own home, knowing which home Horace prefers. Thus, their arguments are not the result of failed communication but rather the result of differing values.

As Faulkner demonstrates, abstract concepts such as truth, law, and civilization hold little meaning unless a particular society agrees upon and shares their significance. These values are no longer shared even by persons of the same class, and the loss of shared values contributes to the violence of Sanctuary. Lee’s trial and grisly death demonstrate the violence and loss of order present in southern consciousness in the 1920s. Joseph Blotner states, “If William Faulkner possessed a strain of misanthropy, there was much on the local, regional, and national scenes to feed it” (235). The townspeople turn Ruby out of the hotel Horace finds for her, and the Baptist preacher delivers a fiery sermon implying that “Goodwin and the woman should be burned as a sole example to the child” (Faulkner 128). Clearly, Jefferson has decided Lee’s fate before the trial even begins. Moreover, the court attacks Ruby’s character immediately when she takes the stand, with the prosecuting attorney pointing out that Lee and Ruby are not married. Producing

the corncob used in Temple’s rape loses Lee’s case, for the District Attorney declares that “this

is no longer a matter for the hangman, but for the bonfire of gasoline” (284). Lee is on trial for

Tommy’s murder, but it is Temple’s identification of Lee as her rapist that seals his death.

Stories which glorify plantation life and support the myths of paternalism are numerous

in southern fiction. These stories were told in order to reinforce social hierarchies, but when

those failed, violence too enforced order. Critic Diane Roberts asserts that “[t]he South

demanded definition and categorization: white over black, free over slave, male over female,

lady over peasant, angel over whore. From the 1830s on, southern society told itself stories

justifying its way of life, insisting on divisions between classes, genders, and races” (xiii). The

stories, along with the social roles they valorize, passed from generation to generation. Yet stories were not enough to maintain the social fiction; lynchings and other forms of violence also maintained social control (Roberts 125). Furthermore, events had begun to unravel those myths

before Faulkner even began his writing career. Andre Bleikasten asserts that “[i]n the late twenties, when Faulkner published his first novels, Southern mythology had in fact already begun to crumble, for owing to another war, that of 1914-1918, the South had re-entered the world” (82). Faulkner was certainly familiar with these myths and the grim practices, such as lynching, that enforced these myths. The violent voices of the lynch mob were familiar to

Faulkner’s Mississippi, with mob violence increasing after the turn of the century (Willis 157).

Though usually a crime associated with racial violence, whites were also lynched, but rarely for the crime of murder (Willis 225). The lynch mob represents chaos, a complete lack of order and lack of belief in the abstract concept of justice. The voices of the “good people” of Jefferson deteriorate into bloodthirsty savagery. The crowd is “antic,” “panting shouts,” and proud of their dirty work. These persons turn on Horace, saying, “Do to the lawyer what we did to him [Lee].

What he did to her. Only we never used a cob. We made him wish we had used a cob” (Faulkner

296). In addition to burning Lee to death, the men imply that they also rape him. They thus ironically become murderers and rapists themselves, guilty of the same crimes that Lee is accused of having done but now done in the name of chastising class transgressions.

At broadest, then, Faulkner demonstrates how class tensions may have the same gruesome consequences as racial ones. Lee’s brutal death is a message to the lower classes from the elite, a warning to those who overstep their boundaries. Though Lee may have been hanged for Tommy’s death, a bootlegger would not be lynched for the murder of another bootlegger.

However, a white trash bootlegger accused of raping a judge’s daughter will be severely punished, even at the expense of justice and order. The townspeople accuse Leeof stealing the same thing as the blacks lynched during this time were accused of stealing: white women.

Charles Hannon argues that the novel “becomes a record of the novelist’s era—in particular, the

tensions, conflicts, and struggles that divided (and sometimes united) that era’s various social

groups” (7). Though in other novels, such as Light in August, Faulkner foregrounds racial tensions and violence, race is practically a non-issue in Sanctuary. Had Temple been a black woman or even a white woman of Ruby’s class, the results would not have been the same. For a woman of Temple’s social standing, her sexual purity is a possession of her father and brothers.

Just as she may be “given” in marriage, rape steals this property from the powerful men of her family, resulting in Lee’s lynching.

Reproducing the glory days of the plantation, however, is not an aim of Sanctuary.

Though voices that participate in the myth are present, especially in the character of Horace

Benbow, voices that do not identify with paternalism are also present. Of Faulkner’s novels,

Hannon says that they “do not reflect contemporary events in a simple, direct way, however, because the discursive structures of history, law, labor, and anthropology experienced moments of ‘eruption’ during the period Faulkner wrote, moments in which existing paradigms were turned on their heads” (157). Sanctuary includes aspects of popular culture, borrowing from the mystery and detective novels that were popular during the 1920s. In Sanctuary, Faulkner returns to the characters he had created in his earlier novels Sartoris and Flags in the Dust, but removes the action from the plantation to the underbelly of the “New South,” allowing for the increased contact of competing ideologies. In describing his decision to write Sanctuary, Faulkner claims,

“I took a little time out, and speculated what a person in Mississippi would believe to be current trends, chose what I thought was the right answer and invented the most horrific tale I could imagine and wrote it in about three weeks… (177). Though Sanctuary is in certain respects

“horrific,” it also a reflection of its time and place.

Unlike other novels such as Absalom, Absalom!, Sanctuary does not reach back into a

not-so-distant past; the text is firmly situated in its own historical moment. That time and place,

Mississippi during the 1920s, often erupted into violence as the New South struggled to define

itself and ideologies competed for dominance. According to Faulkner’s assessment, the mixing

of the classes fails because various ideologies have emerged and are in competition and conflict

with one another. The discourses and therefore the ideologies of the characters in Sanctuary

invariably conflict with one another, with persons on opposing sides occupying positions that seem to be growing further and further apart, making communication more difficult and sympathy and understanding nearly impossible.

The ultimate effect of the novel is thus quite chilling. Sanctuary searches for social and

ideological refuge but finds no safe ground. Present in the numerous voices is a sense of loss and

struggle, a sentiment connected with the novel’s specific location and time. Hannon argues that

“[t]he power of novelistic language is precisely its ability to stage the conflicts that occur when

such a variety of voices enter into a dialogue with one another. Rather than resolving these

conflicts through a single artistic vision, the novel reveals the tensions that exist between a

culture’s different socio-economic groups” (2). The distinctions that Faulkner centralizes in

Sanctuary most are those of social class, and the social violence present in Sanctuary stems not

from racial or gender conflicts but from those of class and ideology. The conflict between

competing voices and ideologies provides an explanation for the violence present in Sanctuary,

and Faulkner exposes the ignorance and antipathy present in each social sphere represented in

the text.

Sanctuary therefore shares high modernist concerns with a loss of order and faith.

Authors in the early twentieth century often depict this as a time of dislocation, a time when

ideas, ways of life, and beliefs exploded along with gunfire in the trenches. Critic David Trotter

argues that modernist writers saw themselves as “inhabitants of a social and cultural system which had stagnated to the point where it was no longer susceptible to reform, but could only be renewed through total collapse or violent overthrow” (77). The frustration, anxiety, and ensuing tension erupt into violence often in Sanctuary, as its nine murders and one rape attest. Faulkner’s novel thus affirms that in the early decades of the twentieth-century he saw Mississippi’s society struggling and failing to establish order and social harmony.

Faulkner does recreate the languages and the ideologies present in contemporary

Mississippi, but Sanctuary demonstrates the ways that the author manipulates those discourses available to him. Bakhtin’s theory essentially risks silencing the author but allows that language represents the author’s own stance in at least one of many other stances. Faulkner does, however, have control over the placement of these voices in relationship to one another; he can choose to highlight or background these voices against each other; he can valorize one over another; and he ultimately controls their relationships to one another in the context of Sanctuary. That Faulkner identifies with any of the major characters is doubtful, though his own exact position within these conflicts is unclear. Thus in examining the various voices and conflicts that he signifies through the language and action of the characters and narration of the novel, it is clear that

Faulkner does believe that class and ideological prejudices cause violence and are as detrimental as racial conflicts to southern society.

Works Cited

Baker, Charles. William Faulkner’s Post Colonial South. New York: Peter Lang, 2001.

Bakhtin, M. M. The Dialogic Imagination. Ed. Michael Holquist. Austin: U

of Texas P, 1981.

Basset, John E. “Sanctuary: Personal Fantasies and Social Fictions.” South Carolina

Review 13.1 (1981): 85-95.

Bleikasten, Andre. “Faulkner and the New Ideologues.” Faulkner and Ideology. Ed.

Kartiganer and Abadie. Jackson, MS: UP of Mississippi, 1995. 3-21.

Blotner, Joseph. Faulkner: A Biography. New York: Random House, 1974.

Brinkmeyer, Robert H. “Faulkner and the Democratic Crisis.” Faulkner and Ideology. Ed.

Kartiganer and Abadie. Jackson, MS: UP of Mississippi, 1995. 70-94.

Brooks, Cleanth. William Faulkner: The Yoknapatawapha Country. New Haven: Yale

UP, 1963.

Faulkner, William. Essays, Speeches, and Public Letters. Ed. James B. Meriwether. New

York: Random House, 2004.

---. Sanctuary. 1993. New York: Vintage, 1931.

Frazier, David L. “Gothicism in Sanctuary: The Black Pall and the Crap Table.” Twentieth-

Century Interpretations of Sanctuary: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John Douglas

Canfield. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1982. 49-58.

Godden, Richard. Fictions of Labor: William Faulkner and the South’s Long Revolution.

Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1997.

Guerard, Albert J. “Sanctuary and Faulkner’s Misogyny.” Modern Critical Interpretions:

Sanctuary. Ed. Harold Bloom. New York: Chelsea, 1998. 63-80.

Gumperez, John J. Discourse Strategies. New York: Cambridge UP, 1982.

Hannon, Charles. Faulkner and the Discourses of Culture. Baton Rouge: Lousiana State UP,

2005.

Howe, Irving. William Faulkner: A Critical Study. Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 1952.

Jehlen, Myra. Class and Character in Faulkner’s South. New York: Columbia UP, 1976.

Jones, Anne Goodwyn. “Desire and Dismemberment: Faulkner and the Ideology of

Penetration.” Faulkner and Ideology. Ed. Kartiganer and Abadie. Jackson, MS: UP of

Mississippi, 1995. 129-71.

Karem, Jeff. The Romance of Authenticity. Charlottesville, VA: UP of Virginia, 2004.

Kartiganer, Donald, and Ann J. Abadie, eds. Faulkner and Psychology. Jackson: UP of

Mississippi, 1994.

Keane-Temple, Rebecca. “The Sounds of Sanctuary: Horace Benbow’s Consciousness.”

Mississippi Quarterly 50.3 (1997): 445-50.

Kerr, Elizabeth M. “Sanctuary: The Persecuted Maiden, or, Vice Triumphant.” Modern

Critical Interpretions: Sanctuary. Ed. Harold Bloom New York: Chelsea, 1998.

82-102.

King, Richard H. “Faulkner, Ideology, and Narrative.” Faulkner and Ideology. Ed.

Kartiganer and Abadie. Jackson, MS: UP of Miss, 1995. 22-44.

Knights, Pamela E. “The Cost of Single-Mindedness: Consciousness in Sanctuary.” The

Faulkner Journal 5.1 (1981): 3-10.

Lockyer, Judith. Ordered by Words: Language and Narration in the Novels of William

Faulkner. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois UP, 1991.

McDonald, Hal. “Faulkner’s Sanctuary.” Explicator 55.4 (1997): 222-24.

Meyer, William E. H. “Culture Wars/Gender Scars: Faulkner’s South vs. America.”

Journal of American Culture 18.4 (1995): 33-41.

Moore, Robert R. “Desire and Despair: Temple Drake’s Self- Victimization” Modern

Critical Interpretions: Sanctuary. Ed. Harold Bloom New York: Chelsea, 1998. 121-33.

Railey, Kevin. Natural Aristocracy. Tuscaloosa, AL: Alabama UP, 1999.

Roberts, Diane. Faulkner and Southern Womanhood. Athens, GA: UP of Georgia, 1994.

Urgo, Joseph R., and Ann J. Abadie, eds. Faulkner in America. Jackson, MS: UP of

Mississippi, 1998.

Vickery, Olga W. “Crime and Punishment: Sanctuary.” Twentieth-Century Interpretations of

Sanctuary: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John Douglas Canfield. Englewood Cliffs,

NJ: Prentice Hall, 1982. 15-24.

Weinstein, Phillip M. “Precarious Sanctuaries: Protection and Exposure in Faulkner’s

Fiction.” Modern Critical Interpretions: Sanctuary. Ed. Harold Bloom. New York:

Chelsea, 1998. 129-33.

Williams, Aubrey. “William Faulkner’s ‘Temple’ of Innocence.” Twentieth- Century

Interpretations of Sanctuary: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John Douglas

Canfield. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1982. 59-69.

Williams, David. “The Profaned Temple” Twentieth- Century Interpretations of

Sanctuary: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. John Douglas Canfield.

Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1982. 93-108.

Willis, John C. Forgotten Time: The Yazoo-Mississippi Delta after the Civil War.

Charlottesville, VA: UP of Virginia, 2000.

Yarbrough, Scott. “The Dark Lady: Temple Drake as Femme Fatale.” Southern Literary

Journal 31.2 (1999): 50-65.